University of Virginia Library

A Stripling to his Lady who lookt upon him as too young.

Madam, I love You, should I not do so,
I were an Anch'ret, and my breast were Snow;
Were marble, I should say, for if it should
Be Snow, or Ice, my flames would melt the mould.
Be't what it will? I love, and here commence
Affection, usher'd in with Reverence.
Deign, but Your Lilly-hand, no bold desire
Shall wing up my Ambition any higher:
Nay, if that be too much? let me descry
My rudenesse chastiz'd in Your scornful eye.
But You all eage these early Years of mine
May look on, but not love Women, nor Wine.
Not love? Away, who can but love a Face
So lovely, unlesse of Deucalions Race?
Yet, while I love, and in my breast enshrine her,
I don't to pitty, but contempt encline her.
True, I am Young, but fast as Nature can,
Though, now a Boy, I shall e're long write Man.
Small as I am, the winged God has found me,
And thought me old enough (at least) to wound me.
Yet let me love thus young, I can produce
Some presidents to warrant my excuse.
And Yours too, Sapho summ'd up all her Joy,
In the embrace of a Sicilian Boy;
The Queen of Greece lov'd Theseus, but a Lad,
And Cytharea her Adonis had.
Nay, love himself that God, is but a Child,
Shall I then be for want of Years exil'd?
Yea, I have heard Fair Damsels say, in truth,
Of all that love, give me the smooth chin'd Youth.
My tender Years, my innocence may prove,
And non-acquaintance with the wyles of Love.
You are, that wounded me, the first, and all:
Blame me not then to come at the first call.